


Made From Love

by circ_bamboo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Trans Male Character, no not that kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:52:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's thirty-five, perfectly healthy, financially solvent, and possessed of a supportive partner. Oh, and he's thinking of getting pregnant. (Trans!Clint, cis!Phil.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made From Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KingHippiedude (missreader)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missreader/gifts).



> This takes place in an AU circa 2008 (post-Natasha, pre-Iron Man) and basically is a pile of fluff. There are fleeting references in the story to body dysphoria (in the past), Natasha's AoU backstory, C-sections, and some side effects that come with pregnancy, but they're all relatively lightweight. Kinghippiedude, I hope I filled your prompt! Thanks to discreetmaths for beta-reading.

"What are you thinking about?"

Clint started and looked up from the sink, where he was hand-washing the expensive kitchen knives. "What makes you think I'm thinking about something?" he asked.

Phil shrugged, still leaning against the door; he'd been taking out the trash and recyclables. "I can pretty much hear the gears turning in your head, and you haven't said more than ten words. Did something happen at your doctor's appointment?"

Clint sighed. "Let me finish this, and then I'll tell you."

"Take your time," Phil said. "I'll take Lucky out."

"Sure." Clint scrubbed the six-inch chef's knife very diligently and listened to Phil's shoes and the dog's nails on the hardwood floor of the hallway.

Ten minutes later, Phil came back; Clint had finished the knives and dried them carefully and put them all away in the knife block, and he couldn't delay anymore.

"You don't have to tell me," Phil said when Clint came into the living room, which, to be fair, was about six feet from where he'd been in the kitchen, but it was one of the joys of apartment living. He was sitting on the floor and rubbing Lucky's belly. The dog was at least half asleep, and Clint scritched under his chin before sitting on the couch. 

"I kinda do," Clint admitted. "I'm not sick or anything," he added quickly. "Kind of the opposite."

"The opposite of sick? Healthy?"

"Yeah." He pulled the afghan off of the top of the couch and wrapped it around him, tucking his toes under the edge. "Really healthy. Fucking perfect condition for a thirty-five-year-old trans guy, really."

"That's good," Phil said. "What's the problem?"

"I'm thirty-five."

"Yeah?"

"Doc asked me if I intended ever to use the ovaries. If so, I probably should make the decision, you know, now."

"Oh," Phil said, and stopped mid-scratch. Lucky whined a little and rolled over to lick his back foot.

"Is that all?" Clint asked.

"No, that's not all," Phil said, "but I want to know what else you have to say first."

"I don't know," Clint said after a moment.

"You don't know what to say?"

"No. I don't know if I want to produce kids myself."

"I always sort of assumed you didn't want to," Phil said. "It's not usually in the trans man narrative, and you've had top surgery. Plus, you've been on testosterone longer than we've been together. I would have guessed that being pregnant would, ah, trip your dysphoria."

"Breasts gave me dysphoria and periods give me dysphoria," Clint said. "I've gotten rid of the breasts and I haven't had periods in years. Not much else trips it." He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe being pregnant would. I mean, she also mentioned freezing eggs and/or using a surrogate, but I don't know about that either."

"Hm," Phil said.

"Do you want kids?"

Phil shrugged. "I'd gotten used to the idea that I wouldn't, at least not ones genetically related to me."

"But if you could?" Clint asked. His heart was starting to speed up, and he counted to six as he took air in through his nose and to six again as he let it out.

Phil shrugged again, and moved to sit on the opposite end of the couch. "I don't know. I'm not such an egotist that I think my genes need to go on in the world. But a kid that was half me and half you might not be so bad."

Clint snorted. "Kid would be a holy terror. Half again too smart for its own good and into everything all of the time."

"Like I said, not so bad," Phil said with a crooked grin. He turned to sit sideways on the couch, tucking his feet under the edge of Clint's afghan on top of Clint's feet. "But under no circumstances do I want you to do something just because I think it wouldn't be terrible."

"Yeah, no," Clint said. "I'm not gonna. But--I'm not going to dismiss the idea out of hand, okay?"

"Okay," Phil said. "Are you going to share that blanket or are you going to make me go get another one?"

"How about you get the spare comforter and we cuddle under that one?" Clint suggested.

"Good call." Phil stood, disappeared for a moment, and returned with the big flannel comforter with snowflakes that they'd picked up on clearance solely for this purpose. It smelled vaguely of dog, regardless of how many times they washed it, and Clint didn't care because he loved the comforter more than anything else in the apartment.

Well, other than Phil and Lucky, of course, and with a special spot for his bow, but still.

They'd been together for nine years and married for two so by now they knew how to fit on the couch without anyone's arms going numb. Phil's arms rested across Clint's shoulders, and Clint lolled his head back against Phil's chest. "Also," he said lazily, several warm minutes later, "I mean, consider our jobs. Should we even have a kid?"

"We have a dog," Phil said. "Jasper has a wife and a kid. Chen and Yiu have three kids."

"The second one wasn't supposed to be twins," Clint said, chuckling. He'd been on a mission with Yiu when Chen had called him and told him it was twins, and the man had almost passed out. "But, yeah, point taken. They're both active-duty agents, at least now that the kids are old enough for daycare."

"You'd have to take some time off," Phil said. "If you did this, I mean. Maybe six months? Last chunk of the pregnancy and the first few weeks after the kid is born."

"Ugh," Clint said. "But doable. Worse than that, I'd have to go off of T." He made a disgusted noise. "Wonder how much muscle tone I'd lose in the, what, year I'd be off. So I'd probably have to take off more time than that to recertify."

"You're not going to lose your aim," Phil said calmly. "You might lose a little bit of strength, but you know how to get it back. You'd lose a little edge if you were out for six months regardless of hormones."

"Yeah, fair," Clint conceded. "But I'd also have to get a period or two, depending on how fast I managed to get knocked up. Doc said after discontinuing the T I should get periods within a couple months but I'd have to wait at least a full cycle to get my uterine lining to build back up."

"Sounds like you talked to her about this."

Clint shrugged, causing Phil's arms to move up and down. "I wanted the facts from someone who knew me, not off the internet. I mean, there isn't that much information on pregnant trans men on the internet. It's more urban legends at this point."

"So you'd go off T, and then some time later--"

"--like, weeks. It'll clear out pretty fast since my body doesn't produce much naturally."

"Okay, so weeks later, you'd be fertile, and . . .?"

Clint took a deep breath. "We could either do it with a turkey baster, or, you know, the usual method. If that doesn't weird you out."

"We've had sex that way before," Phil said.

"I know, but it's--this whole situation is really unusual."

"Yeah, it is," Phil said gently, "but not in a bad way."

"I mean, we don't have to decide now. Just soonish. Soon."

"I know," Phil said. "I love you."

"I love you too," Clint said, and kissed one of Phil's wrists, as it was the nearest part of him. "You said that just to calm me down, didn't you."

"Well, I mean it."

"Yeah. Me too."

***

Both of them, plus Natasha, shipped out for a four-day mission the next afternoon. Somewhere in the middle of the third day--Clint's second in a sniper nest--he hit the button on his earpiece, switching it just to talk to Phil, and said, "Hey, Phil?"

"I know you're bored, but no personal stuff on the comms," Phil said.

"I know, but--hey, let's do it."

Phil didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Let's put a pin in this conversation and talk about it once we get back and have had a good night's sleep, but yes, Clint, I hear you and I support you. We just need to make a plan."

"Of course you think so," Clint said. "Love you."

"Love you too." 

A beep indicated that they were back to the party line, and Natasha said, "Can I be Auntie Nat?"

Clint spluttered. "The fuck, Tasha--!"

"Just thought I'd get my request in early."

"Later," Phil said, his voice cutting through any actual response Clint might have made. "Agent Romanoff, you'll get what information you are entitled to later."

"Yes, sir," Natasha said.

***

It was breakfast two days later when they finally had a time to sit down and talk about it, and Clint chuckled when he saw that Phil was prepared, with a legal pad and a laptop and not one but two pens, one red and one black. "Loaded for bear?" he said.

"Loaded for baby," Phil said.

"Ah," Clint said. "Yeah. I guess that's where we're going."

"So you're willing to carry a fetus to term."

"Looks like it." Clint drummed his fingers on the table, and Lucky came over and nosed his elbow. He stopped and petted the dog instead. "Not like you can, anyway," he joked.

"You're right, I can't," Phil said. "I'm also not trans, so I really don't have any practical experience here. Right now you're read as a man pretty much a hundred percent of the time."

"Yeah," Clint said. He'd lucked out; even though he'd gone on T well after experiencing estrogen-based puberty, he'd always been kind of blocky in build. Between the pretty good gym routine and the way he'd lucked out with T reshaping his face and hands--a possible side effect but not universal--he couldn't actually remember the last time someone had used the wrong pronoun or honorific. 

"But if you start going around with a giant belly, and if what remaining breast tissue you have swells, you might not be as lucky. I'm not saying this to upset you, but I was reading an article--"

"Yeah, I know," Clint said, cutting him off. "I read that one too. Thing is, most of SHIELD knows, right? And they know that I'll put an arrow through their noses if they call me the wrong thing. And if I don't, you'll kill them with, I don't know, your morning coffee."

"I don't even need something that strong," Phil deadpanned, and they both chuckled.

"But honestly, I think I'm probably gonna read as a fat guy when I'm, you know, actually visibly pregnant," Clint said. "I can help that along with baggy clothing."

"That's other people. But what about you? Are you going to look in the mirror and be okay with what you see?" Phil asked.

"Are you going to be okay with what you see when you look at me?" Clint said in return as he looked down at his hands.

"Of course I am," Phil said, without the slightest hesitation.

Clint looked up, and yeah, Phil's face was the picture of sincerity, but Clint knew as well as anyone how good he was at faking that. But he couldn't see any of Phil's usual infinitesimal tells. Still, he had to ask, "Really?"

"Yes, really," Phil said, and he spread his hands, palm down, on the table. "First, I love you. Second, you do not look the same as you did nine years ago when we started dating, and I certainly don't either. You probably have some pretty good data that I'm still attracted to you."

"Yeah, but I look better now," Clint said.

Phil shrugged. "You look the way you want to, and that makes you happy, which makes me happy. But if you want to have a kid, then you'll also be looking the way you want to, which will make you happy, which will make me happy."

"That's really convoluted and yet simple," Clint said after a minute. "So. I mean, yeah, it's not going to be easy, but pregnancy isn't easy for cis women. Or so I've been told."

"Yeah," Phil said. "We're in a good place financially. We might need a bigger place, or we can stay here and lose the office."

Clint shrugged. "We can lose the office."

"Well, of course you'd say that," Phil said. "You never use it."

An hour of discussion later--parenting style, cribs, time off, daycare, et cetera--Clint had a headache, but they had a pretty good list of what they needed to know. "Can we go back to bed?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course," Phil said. "Let's go." He tore off the pages of his legal pad that he'd used and folded them in half, bringing them with him into the bedroom and setting them under his phone on the nightstand.

Clint watched with some measure of detachment; he was grateful that Phil was so organized, because he knew he'd never be. Kicking off his shoes, he curled up on his half of the bed and waited for Phil to curl up behind him.

Phil draped the comforter over both of them and slung an arm over Clint's midsection. "Thank you," he breathed against the back of Clint's neck.

"You're welcome," Clint said. "For what?"

"For being you," Phil said.

"Mm," Clint said.

A couple hours later he woke up; Phil was awake, too, but said he hadn't been awake long when Clint asked. "A few minutes, maybe."

"Ah."

Phil started stroking Clint's upper arm in a very purposeful manner, and before he even said anything Clint turned around and said, "Yeah, let's fuck."

"When did the romance die?" Phil asked, chuckling, but he started helping Clint pull off his T-shirt and pajama pants.

"When you married _me_ ," Clint said, returning the favor; he dragged his nails through Phil's chest hair.

"What's on the menu?" Phil asked as he threw Clint's clothing off the end of the bed. He dragged off his own pajama pants and threw them as well.

"Nothing's off the menu today," Clint said. "You?"

"Same," Phil said. "Can I suck you off?"

He sounded so wistful, not like his usual matter-of-fact gentleness in bed, that Clint smiled. "It's not going to disappear just because I'm off T for a while," he said. "I googled. The giant clit stays. But yeah, go for it."

"Your wish is my command," Phil said, and disappeared under the comforter.

***

Later, sweat-sticky and sated, Clint grinned at the ceiling while Phil got rid of the condom and wet a washcloth. "Yeah, so we're going to have to switch from that for a bit. No more buttsex," he said once Phil had returned and handed him the cloth. 

"Well, not no more buttsex forever," Phil said, throwing the washcloth back into the bathroom and joining Clint in the bed. "Just until you get pregnant, which, by the way, is a little weird to say."

"It's a little weird to think," Clint admitted. "It's like, do I lose my trans guy card by actually really wanting this?"

"No," Phil said, almost before Clint had finished speaking. "No, of course you don't. But you know that."

"I guess," Clint said. "Yeah. No, I do. It's just--I mean, we talked about this before, but I basically gave up on the idea of having kids a million years ago. And now it's, you know, three or four missed shots and a couple months of missionary position sex away." He rubbed his thigh where the intramuscular testosterone injections usually went. "That's not going to stop being weird, but good weird, not bad weird."

"Good," Phil said. "That's good." A pause, and then: "It doesn't have to be missionary position."

"Are you making a suggestion?" Clint said. "Reverse cowboy?"

"Sure," Phil said. "Whatever you want."

"On Lola's hood?"

"Except that."

"Aww."

***

"So, baby," Natasha said, while she and Clint were holed up in a cabin just past the Latverian border, waiting for pickup. "What's the information I'm entitled to?"

"You can be Auntie Nat," Clint said.

"Where are you going to put it?"

"Office, for now," he said. "I don't want to move, but we might have to when the kid's, you know, going to school or something."

"I didn't know you wanted kids."

"Yeah," Clint said, "I always kind of did, but spending a zillion years thinking you can't for a long list of reasons means it wasn't something I went around talking about."

"And you didn't think of it until the doctor mentioned it?"

"How did you know that?"

"This all started right after your annual appointment," she said. "It wasn't that big a leap."

"If you really want to know," he said, "I honestly thought being on T for a decade meant I couldn't get pregnant even if I went off of it. Doc told me I was wrong, and then I started thinking about it, while I'm still sitting there bare-assed on the crinkly paper, and . . ."

"And here you are."

"Yeah," he said. "Here we are. Do you want kids?"

"Can't," she said shortly.

"Not what I asked. I figured you can't."

"How so?" she said, giving him a quick glance and then looking back out the tiny break in the curtains.

"You and I have roughly the same job and I've got twenty million scars, not counting the ones from top surgery, and you have two. A gunshot just above your hip and a surgery scar from your navel to your pubes. I don't have to be a doctor to figure out where the latter came from, even if I never asked."

"Oh," she said.

"We don't have to talk about it."

"Let's not, then," she said. "What are you going to name the kid?"

"I'm not even pregnant yet," Clint said, chuckling. "I can tell you that the kid's not getting any names in my family."

"Natasha's a good name."

"Meh, so-so," he said.

He didn't even see her lean over to smack him on the knee. "Ow!"

***

"You sure you really want to do this?" Fury asked, and yeah, it was in fact really weird to be sitting in his boss's office, talking about getting knocked up. But the problem was that he had a weird and specialized job, so it wasn't like they could hire a temp to cover him. Anyway, Phil and Fury were old friends, so it was more along the lines of a heads-up that there was going to be paperwork than anything else.

"Yeah," Clint said.

Fury's eyebrows raised. "That's all I get? 'Yeah'? After you come here and say that you're gonna become a medical marvel?"

"All the rest isn't your business, sir," Clint said. "Yes, I want to do this. Yes, we're doing this. No, it wasn't Phil's idea."

"No, this has you written all over it, Barton," Fury said.

Phil, who had been sitting in his chair slightly behind Clint, deceptively relaxed, leaned forward and said, "Marcus, would you be giving us this much crap if I'd been married to a woman in the organization?"

"Cheese, if you're married to my best sniper and talking about taking them out of the game for a year or more, I'm gonna give you crap regardless of sex."

Clint exchanged a glance with Phil, and Phil said, "That's fair."

"Damn right it is."

"But here's what you're not going to do, Director Fury. You're not going to change Agent Barton's career trajectory, you're not going to dock or mitigate his pay, you're not going to treat him any differently than if he weren't, and you're not going to require him to submit to any sort of testing that you wouldn't ask Agent May to submit to, were she trying to return after a pregnancy."

Damn, Phil was hot, Clint thought, and squirmed in his chair a little. He'd forgotten about stuff like that. He knew that there were certain things employers weren't supposed to do to pregnant women, like fire them, but he'd passed well enough as a guy pretty much his entire career that he hadn't gotten some of the level of misogyny that cis women did. He got different kinds of shit, some worse, but not that particular kind of shit.

"If I do," Fury said, leveling a one-eyed stare at Phil and then Clint in turn, "you have my permission to call me on it, and I'll fix it."

Phil nodded, and Clint said, "Okay."

"Now, how are we going to manage this and your day job?" Fury said. "You can do training for a while but at some point it's going to be obvious that you're pregnant and not taking your hormones. And no, I don't think we can cross this bridge when we come to it. I want a plan in place before you even have a bun in the oven, Barton."

"I'll tell people, I guess," Clint said. "It's not like everyone here doesn't know I'm trans. I already get stupid questions about what's in my pants. This'll just answer it faster for some people."

"It's none of their damn business," Phil muttered under his breath.

"Okay, so we're telling everyone," Fury said, ignoring Phil. "I'm gonna have to trust you to tell me when you can't do what I'm asking you to do anymore. I won't give you tests, but you gotta tell me. I don't want to send you on a mission you can't do."

Clint took a deep breath and let it out. "Yeah, okay," he said. "I guess that's the best way to do it."

"It's your job to talk to HR about maternity pay," Fury said. "Coulson, I know you already have a plan for everything. Send me what you think I need to know, and then the rest of it, too."

"I'm not going to send you my chart for tracking Clint's ovulation, sir," Phil said mildly.

Fury waved a hand at him. "I've seen weirder. Go."

As they walked out, Clint asked, "You really have a chart for tracking my ovulation?"

"I printed one out," Phil said. "I haven't filled it in yet. From what I can tell, we're going to have to wait until you get a period until we can start checking."

"Ugh," Clint said, and shuddered. "I'll deal with it," he added, at Phil's worried look. "It's--" He looked around the hallway and, seeing no one nearby, said, "It's partly the whole not-a-girl thing and partly remembering having to steal toilet paper and wad it up in my shorts because I couldn't find anywhere to get pads or tampons. So, I mean, if I can see it as a means to an end, it should be okay."

Phil nodded. "Would it make you feel better if we went and got pads and tampons right now? Then you know you'll be prepared."

"Probably, yeah," Clint admitted. "Sometimes I'm really glad you've got ex-girlfriends."

"I'd like to think I wouldn't be an ass about this even if I didn't have any," Phil said, and twisted his lips to the side before adding, "But I'd probably have to 'go undercover' to buy them if I hadn't."

"Well, I'm going to let them think they're for my girlfriend," Clint said.

"No problem with that."

***

Clint didn't really notice any changes when he intentionally skipped his next dose of hormones. They came so gradually--a little weight gain, some loss of strength--that it was almost six weeks later, when he woke up with abdominal discomfort, before he realized the extent of it. "Oh," he said, and rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

"What is it?" Phil asked, coming in from the bathroom. It was early, but Clint could smell coffee.

"Cramps," Clint said. "I think. Or else the peanut-butter sandwich I had for dinner was tainted."

"Ah," Phil said. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've fucking got cramps, what do you think?" He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears. "I forgot how shitty PMS and cramps are."

"Drugs?"

"Yeah."

Phil disappeared and came back with ibuprofen and water; Clint swallowed the pills with a muttered, "Thanks. Sorry for being a shit."

"I know this is hard for you," Phil said, "and I honestly just want to make everything easier. I don't think you're being a shit."

"You're kinda unreal, you know that?" Clint said after a minute.

"I'm right here," Phil said, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed and holding out a hand to Clint.

"Get back here and cuddle me until you have to go," Clint said with a watery smile.

"Your wish is my command."

***

Cramps meant a period, and Clint suffered through that with about as much grace as he could muster: next to none. Phil was unfailingly nice; Natasha was relatively sympathetic, as much as she could be. Maria Hill, who'd been told fairly early on as she was Director Fury's deputy, brought him a batch of peanut-butter brownies. "Periods suck," she said. "Let's hope you don't have to get too many more of them."

"Your lips to my ovaries," Clint said, and then made a face. "Or not."

Period meant about two weeks to ovulation, and then hopefully baby-making.

"If it doesn't happen this month," Phil said, "you know we can try again. And again, until you decide you don't want to try anymore. If you decide you don't want to try right now, that's fine too."

"Oh, my God, no," Clint said. "If I can get knocked up now and get this shit over with, I'm into it."

"How romantic," Phil said.

"We're eating lunch in your office," Clint said. "No offense, but Junior isn't going to be conceived here."

"Fair enough."

***

The first time they actually intentionally tried to conceive a baby, Clint was so nervous that nothing happened; fortunately, Phil had planned for that, and they'd started a couple days early.

"Yeah, but," Clint said, Phil wrapped around his back, their pajamas back on, "I agreed to this. I want this. We've had penis-in-vagina sex before, like, last week. Why can't I relax?"

"You can't relax right now," Phil said, warm breath on the short hairs at the back of Clint's neck. "You'll be able to relax tomorrow, or maybe the day after. It's fine. We have a few more days. And then we have all the time in the world."

"How the hell do women even get pregnant?" Clint asked. "Is it always this terrifying?"

"Something like half of pregnancies are unintended," Phil said. "So, no, but a different kind of terrifying, I think."

"Ugh," Clint said."

The second time, the next night, went a little better; Clint didn't get off, but he figured he'd survive that.

"Legs up in the air," Phil said, when Clint went to roll over.

"Wait, what?" Clint asked. "That actually works?" He flipped around and propped his legs up on the wall above the headboard.

"More or less," Phil said. "Here, put this under your butt. That's my pillow you're using."

Clint obligingly stuffed the towel Phil gave him under his butt.

"Ideally, you'd have had an orgasm in there, too, but I don't want you to feel pressure about that."

"That works, too?"

"Well, it's not necessary, obviously, but research says it helps."

"I mean, if it's gonna help me get knocked up, there's a vibrator or four in the drawer."

Phil's lips quirked. "Get my pillow out from under your butt and we'll talk."

***

Clint didn't get pregnant that month; his period came thirty-one days after the first one, and he did not punch a hole in the wall when that happened.

Not for lack of trying, though.

***

Clint didn't get pregnant the next month, either, although the sex got easier.

***

Clint was three days late, their third month of trying, when he returned from a week-long mission with Natasha and Sitwell, but he didn't realize it until he was unpacking and found that he'd brought a bunch of stuff he didn't use. He checked the calendar on the fridge and yeah, he was three days late.

Then again, he'd been under some physical stress this last week--and before that, too, when he'd been trying to pretend he hadn't lost twenty-five pounds on his squat.

So maybe it was nothing.

By the time Phil got home, he'd worked himself up into knots, and it didn't even take more than a moment for Phil to figure out why. "You're late?" he asked.

"Yeah," Clint said, curled up into a ball on the couch with two blankets over him and still shivering.

"What's scarier, being pregnant or not being pregnant?" Phil said. "And is it okay if I touch you?"

"Please," Clint said, flipping the end of one blanket out in invitation.

"Let me get out of this suit if I'm going to get under the blanket," Phil said.

"You know what, I'm just going to--" Clint picked up all of his blankets and followed Phil into the bedroom, plopping in the middle of the bed. Lucky came in, licked his fingers, and then curled up at the foot of the bed. He watched Phil change somewhat absently, and when Phil slid onto the bed beside him in sweatpants and a t-shirt, he rolled over to bury his head in Phil's shoulder. "Not knowing," he said. "That's what's scary."

"Yeah," Phil said, running his fingers through Clint's hair. "We can go into SHIELD and they can do a blood test for you. It'll take a few hours to get the results, but it would still be faster than waiting the two more days recommended for the urine test."

"Can we do that?"

"Of course."

Phil made a quick phone call while Clint showered and put on outdoor clothing again; it was after normal business hours but SHIELD's medical center really didn't care about things like that.

"You know, if I keep showing up here voluntarily," Clint said, trying to crack a joke as they waited in the exam room for the nurse to come in to do the blood draw, "they're going to wonder if I've been possessed."

"No comment," Phil said, but he squeezed Clint's hand.

The blood draw was as painless as a blood draw could be, and they were promised results as soon as they came in. "We'll call you," the nurse said. "Probably before midnight tonight."

"Good," Clint said. To Phil, after they left, he added, "I'm not sure I'd be able to sleep if they hadn't promised results by then."

"Aren't you jet-lagged?"

"A little," Clint admitted. "But I'm still not going to sleep."

"Fair enough. You hungry?"

"No," Clint said, "but I should eat something."

"Let's get dinner out. It'll chew up some time."

It did, and then junk television took up some more time, but Clint was still wide awake when Medical called back at 11:48 pm. "Congratulations, Agent Barton. You're pregnant."

"I'm pregnant?" Clint said.

He was pretty sure the nurse said some things after that, but they all sounded like static as he turned to Phil and grinned. "I'm pregnant!"

"Yes, you are," Phil said, grinning just as broadly.

Lucky barked once, his tail thumping on the floor.

***

The morning sickness hit about two weeks later, but subsided a little after that. He stopped fitting into his usual pants about three months in, mostly because of fat redistribution, but he could get away with wearing jeans a size bigger.

He could still fit into the air vents, though, which was how he heard a couple of junior agents talking about him.

"Hawkeye's getting kinda chubby."

"Not chubby. He's pregnant, didn't you hear?"

"I did, but right now he just looks like he laid off on the workouts."

"Which is funny, because he's always working out."

"He must've gone off of hormones. Is that why his face is getting rounder? Is he going to start looking like a girl again?"

One of them snorted. "Nah. Haven't you seen some old pictures? He never looked like a girl in the first place."

Yeah, that was enough.

With a thump, he landed in front of them, scaring the bejesus out of what he saw now was Agent Kinlin and Agent Medin. "So, funny story. Here I am minding my own business and then I catch a couple of junior agents calling me fat and ugly. It's almost like they forgot that first, I'm Hawkeye, and I outrank them, and second, that I'm pregnant."

"Uh," Agent Medin said.

"And you know how irrational pregnant people are," he said. "So irrational they might, I don't know, drop out of the air vents to remind junior agents that bullshit gossip is a bad idea."

"Yes," Agent Kinlin said. "Yes, it was a very bad idea."

"Aw, now, you're just saying that 'cause you got caught."

Both agents shook their heads as hard as they could, and Clint laughed.

"Yeah, well," he said. "Don't. You know what not to do." He turned and stalked off in the opposite direction.

"Even his _walk_ looks different," Agent Medin whispered to Agent Kinlin.

Clint heard, of course, and stopped. He turned around slowly, gave them the best murderface he could muster, and turned back around, heading out before he kicked them in the head or something stupid like that.

***

Five months in he looked solidly pregnant when he was wearing form-fitting clothing, and also when he was naked, as he was at that moment, staring at his belly. "Well, that's a baby bump," he said to himself.

"Hm?" Phil asked from in the bathroom.

"Baby bump. Me."

Phil poked his head into the bedroom. "Well, yeah, that was the point, wasn't it?"

"I guess," Clint said. "Looks kinda weird with the body hair." He hadn't lost the happy trail under his navel, which was more like a soft triangle pointing upwards, but it was stretched out a little more now. Not a lot, but it was too firm to be a beer gut and too big to be an extra-large pizza. He chuckled at his own thoughts.

Lucky, sitting in a lump on the end of the bed, looked up at the sound, but then went back to sleep.

"What's so funny?"

"It's a little too big to be the result of an eating contest," Clint said.

"Ah," Phil said, clearly not getting it. He came into the room all the way, the towel still wrapped around his waist. "I mean, I'm not going to say it's how I ever expected to see you, had you asked me a year ago, but it's not that much different than I imagined."

"You totally want to touch it, don't you."

"I want to touch _you_ ," Phil said. "I always do."

"You just had your hands all over me in the shower," Clint said, but he took a few steps closer.

"What's your point?" Phil asked, plastering himself to Clint's back and resting one hand lightly under his navel. "I did want to ask if it's okay if I touch you here, but not while we were in the middle of sex."

"Sure," Clint said, "as long as it's not, like a fetish or something. Oof, there's the popcorn feeling again. Maybe I'm hungry."

"Popcorn?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "Kinda feels like there's popcorn popping in my guts. Tomorrow I'll ask the doctor about it."

"Did you google it?"

"No, because the doctor's appointment is tomorrow morning," Clint said, shrugging. "No point, really. It doesn't hurt; it's just weird. Think I need food anyway."

Phil nodded, but he looked a little worried.

"Also, another ultrasound tomorrow," Clint said. They had the very first one tacked up on the fridge, and another copy on Phil's pinboard in his office. Clint had a third copy taped up in his locker, because he went into his actual office--half an office he supposedly shared with Natasha, who never used hers either--twice a year at best. "Do you want to know the sex?"

"You mean, what sex the baby is going to be assigned at birth?" Phil said, a half-grin on his face. "Do you?"

Clint shrugged. "Don't suppose it matters. It's not like we're going to treat the kid differently either way. Or if it turns out like me."

"Of course we wouldn't," Phil said.

Not more than fifteen minutes later, though, Clint got curious and typed "popcorn popping in stomach" into Google, and . . . "Holy shit, Phil, that was the baby moving."

"The popcorn thing?" Phil said. "I thought it might be."

"Why didn't you say anything? Holy shit, the baby's moving. Oh, God, I'm crying. Phil, why am I crying?" Clint swiped the tears off of his face, shoved the laptop aside, and went to lay his head in Phil's lap. Lucky came over and licked Clint’s face, and Clint patted the couch on the other side of Phil, to get the dog to plop there.

"The baby moving seems like a perfectly good reason to cry," Phil said, his voice thick, and Clint looked up enough to see that he was crying, too.

***

The next morning, Dr. Augello said, "Everything looks good so far. To review: you've gained about fifteen pounds, which is right in the healthy range, given the rest of your chart. Your blood pressure is a little high but you have a well-documented history of white-coat hypertension. We've got a urine sample out for checkup. You said no spotting, right?"

"Right," Clint said.

"You're eating about four hundred calories more per day than you were, right?"

"Something like that, yeah," Clint said.

"There's no swelling in your hands or feet yet, your fundal height is right on the money, we've got the blood for the screening. We're doing the glucose test next time, and you're both Rh-positive so we don't need to worry about that. You've started to feel fluttering, like popcorn, you said, in the last week, and that's good. It should start feeling like kicking in a couple more weeks.

"But before we get to the ultrasound, Clint, we have two things to talk about."

"Oh?" Clint asked.

"Easy one first: do you want to know the apparent sex of the baby?" she asked. "We might be able to tell during the ultrasound."

Clint looked at Phil, who raised his eyebrows back at him. "I guess, sure," he said. "I mean, it doesn't really make a difference one way or another? But we might as well know."

"It doesn't make a difference, you mean, because you'll be happy either way?" Dr. Augello asked.

"Well, or the kid could turn out trans, like me, and we'll have been wrong for five or ten or twenty years by that point," Clint said. "So it really doesn't matter if we find out today or the day the kid comes out. If you happen to see a penis today, you can tell us."

"Speaking of," she said, "how do you want the baby to come out? I warned you last time that I'd ask."

Clint groaned. "I did what you said. I googled, but the websites are all so . . . Like, a hundred percent of them expect that you're female and rich with a supportive partner and health care and look, I know we're not poor and I have good health care and a supportive partner and a great doctor, and I know that pregnant trans men are rare, but . . ." He wrinkled his nose. "Yuck."

"But you did read up, right?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"I was kind of leaning towards a C section," Clint said. "Gotta admit, childbirth sounds awful and while it's not like I'll be going anywhere, it would be better if I can just say, yup, I'm having a baby on that day."

"All right, that's fine," Dr. Augello. "I'm going to be selfish for a moment and say I was hoping you'd say that because if you wanted natural childbirth I might have to call in backup. I've caught maybe two babies since med school, but I've done a lot more C sections."

Clint shuddered. "Yeah, that makes up my mind. There are two people in the universe who get to peer into my junk, and they're both in this room."

"You have, however," Phil said, "talked many an agent through an emergency baby delivery in the field."

"And three of them were you, Agent Coulson," Dr. Augello said, grinning. "All right. We'll wait and schedule the C section when you're a little farther along, so we have a better idea of when it should be. Let me get the ultrasound tech, and we can move on to the fun part."

"Oh, my God," Clint said a few minutes later, his shirt rucked up halfway and his pants--sweatpants, since they still fit okay--shoved down to his pubes. "That's creepy. It looks like a baby!"

"It has your nose," Phil said, sounding perfectly calm even though Clint was probably grinding the bones in his hand together, he was holding on so hard.

"That's not possible," Clint said. "I didn't even have my nose until it got broken a few times."

"But nonetheless," Phil said, pointing.

"Weird," Clint said.

"Gentlemen, I can't say for certain, but it looks as if the baby does not have a penis," Dr. Augello said.

"That's about the best I can do, while the baby's in this position," the ultrasound tech said, a little apologetically.

"So probably a girl?" Clint said.

"Assigned female somewhat before birth," Phil said, cracking a smile.

"Wow," Clint said. "Just wow."

***

Natasha came over for dinner that night, and saw the new ultrasound printouts. "3D ultrasound is very . . . creepy."

"Did you just call my kid creepy?" Clint asked.

"Well, indirectly, yes," she said. "But look at the picture. It looks kind of like an alien."

"Yeah, fair," Clint conceded.

"So, did you find out the sex?"

"The apparent sex," Phil corrected, coming in with the pizza. 

"Yeah, probably a girl," Clint said with a shrug. "I mean, regardless the kid's going to get taught to kick the shit out of anyone messing with it. Them. Her. Whatever. I guess I should stop calling the baby an 'it.'"

"Natasha's a really nice name," Natasha said.

"Junior's going to get taught to try diplomacy first," Phil said, handing out plates as Clint picked up a slice.

"Junior's gonna get taught that in some situations, diplomacy is stupid," Clint said, and sat back, resting the plate on his abdomen. It wasn't quite big enough to hold it up properly, but he made do.

Natasha watched him for a moment. "That's strange."

"Gonna be stranger in about three and a half months when I can do this right," Clint said, and belched.

"You're going to be an excellent role model," Natasha said.

"Well, there's a reason I keep Phil around," he said.

"So what are you going to name her?" she asked. “We’re going with ‘her,’ right?”

“Yeah.” Clint looked at Phil. "Do you have any suggestions? At the moment I just have a list of anti-suggestions."

"What are your anti-suggestions?" Phil asked.

"Any name in my family. Nick. Jasper. Steve."

"Did you just tell Phil that he couldn't name your kid after Captain America?" Natasha asked, clearly delighted.

"Yes," Clint said, and Phil sighed.

"So I'm guessing 'Margaret' is out as well."

"You wanted to name the baby after Director Carter?"

"Well, not really," Phil said a little stiffly, "but it's not a bad suggestion."

"It isn't," Clint said. "But let's not."

"Sarah?"

"Captain America's mother. Try again."

"Rebecca? Winifred?"

"You really need to stop dragging me around on your Cemetery Tours of People Connected to Captain America if you expect Bucky Barnes's youngest sister and mother's names to pass," Clint said, laughing. "Let's give her a name without a ton of weight to it, okay?"

"Sure," Phil said.

"I guess Natasha's out," Natasha said, mock-dejected.

"Too much for her to live up to," Clint said, and Natasha punched him in the arm before leaning her head on his shoulder.

***

"No, seriously, what are we going to name her?" Clint asked a couple weeks later. He'd gotten used to thinking of the baby as a 'she' and they'd breathed a sigh of relief when all the possible tests for something gone wrong came back negative. No signs of pre-eclampsia, and the baby appeared to be healthy; anything else they could deal with later. "Shouldn't we know before she's born?"

"That's more than three months from now," Phil said. They were on the phone; Phil had been tapped for something out in California, and would be gone for up to two weeks. He'd taken Natasha with him, and Clint was denying that he was moping. "We'll come up with something. How's work going?"

"Fine. Boring," Clint said. "I wore the tightest pants I had and a spandex shirt to teach the kiddies how to shoot and no one even said anything. I've scared them all into submission in one week, Phil. What am I supposed to do for the rest of the training period?"

"I don't know, dear," Phil said. "Find new and creative ways to frighten them?"

"Oh, probably," Clint said. "So. Names. I don't have one. You?"

"Well, you said we can't name her Steve, so--"

"Phil. I'm actually trying to be serious."

"I know," Phil said. "I'm sorry. I wasn't, obviously. Uh. Olivia? Alexandra? Melinda?"

"... Are you watching SVU?"

"Yes."

"Maybe, maybe, and no, I'm not naming my kid after Melinda May for the same reason I'm not naming her after Natasha."

"Good policy. Another question is, what will her last name be? You didn't change yours, and we're both men, so there's little precedent."

"Uh, Barton-Coulson? I mean, it's a mouthful, but it seems accurate."

"I'd be fine if you wanted her name just to be Barton," Phil said quietly.

"I'd be fine with her name being Coulson," Clint said, shrugging. "So, a double-barreled last name. Maybe a short first name, or she'll never finish writing it on her spelling tests."

"Or something with a short nickname," Phil said. "Well, at least we have parameters now. My other phone's ringing. Talk to you later. I love you."

"I love you too," Clint said.

***

Phil went with Clint to his next doctor's appointment; surprisingly, Dr. Augello was running late and they had to wait in the lobby for a good fifteen minutes. They weren't alone, though; Helen from Building Operations was in there, her foot propped up on a chair. "Oh, hi, Agent Barton, Agent Coulson," she said. "How are you?"

"I'm doing well," Phil said.

"My ankles are starting to swell," Clint said, since it was fairly obvious he was pregnant at that point and he figured he may as well tell everyone the truth.

"That's normal," she said. "When are you due?"

"Early February," Clint said.

"Have you picked a name yet?"

Clint would never quite understand why people felt it was their business to ask questions like that, but Phil answered for him. "No, not yet."

"My niece just named her daughter Kimberly Jo. Isn't Kimberly a pretty name?"

Clint bit his tongue hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, and Phil answered again. "We won't be naming her Kimberly, but thank you for the suggestion."

Helen looked a little confused, and for whatever reason, Phil went on. "I knew a Kimberly. She . . . wasn't very happy. So we'd rather not remember that."

"Ahh," she said, although it was obvious she didn't understand, but luckily the nurse called her name, and she hobbled off to her own exam room.

Once the waiting room was empty, Clint said, "You've only known me as Clint."

"So I fudged the timeline a little," Phil said. "You still weren't happy when people called you that."

"No, I wasn't," Clint said, and fell silent.

Dr. Augello called them a few minutes later to come back into the room. "There's good news and there's good news," she said. "Which do you want first?"

"Obviously the good news," Clint said. "I'm guessing I don't have gestational diabetes."

"Nope," she said, "nor any real signs of hypertension or protein in your urine. Your weight gain is still exactly textbook and you look healthy--how are you feeling?"

"Fine, mostly," Clint said with a shrug. "My ankles are starting to swell, though." He poked one foot out to display.

"That's not unexpected," Dr. Augello said. "May I?" Clint nodded, and she caught his foot to press on the swelling a little. "It looks like you're fine, but call if it gets worse than this, okay?"

"I will," Clint said.

"How's your brain doing?"

Clint slid a glance at Phil, and said, "A little fuzzy, and I swear I cry all the time. But I think a lot of it was going off T, and not the pregnancy stuff. I mean, I remember when I first went on it, like a year later, I felt like my brain worked so much better, you know?"

"That's not uncommon," Dr. Augello said. "So you went off testosterone and then your body went into overdrive, producing estrogen and progesterone at levels you'd never experienced before. Frankly, you're doing better than I expected."

"Well, that's good to hear," Clint said. "So what now?"

"More measurements," she said, and the rest of the appointment went on.

***

"I'm sorry your brain is fuzzy," Phil said, while they were both in bed later that night.

Clint was sliding towards sleep, but he woke up enough to respond. "It's okay," he said. "It came on so slowly that it took a while before I noticed. I know there's only a couple of months left, and I can stand it."

"Everything should go back to normal once you're done being pregnant and once you're back on testosterone, right?"

"Yeah. That's what the doc said back before I was pregnant."

"How do you feel about being pregnant right now? I'm sorry I haven't been asking," Phil said.

Clint was glad it was dark, because he was just loopy enough to say a thing he'd been thinking and feeling for a while. "This is kinda weird?"

"Go on," Phil said. He reached over and took Clint's hand, rubbing his thumb between Clint's knuckles.

"I thought when I got knocked up I'd, you know, spend nine months feeling super weird because pregnancy is a girl thing, right? But I don't."

"Don't feel weird?"

"Don't feel like a girl. Like, the brain fuzz is kinda weird and I'm not really happy with the fat going to my hips and chest, but I don't look much more feminine than I did last year, and I don't feel feminine at all."

"Ah," Phil said.

"I mean, more than that, I feel kinda . . . This is the weird part."

"Clint, I don't care if you tell me you feel like a five-foot-nine squirrel," Phil said. "Whatever you want to tell me, it's fine."

"I feel really butch," Clint said, after a few breaths. "Like, really manly. On a normal day I, you know, it's cool when I can pick up heavy shit and have to shave a beard every couple days and wearing stompy boots and stuff. But like, now I feel like I'm that guy we're chasing in South America, what's the code name again? The one who turns big and green and picks up buildings."

"Dr. Banner, you mean?"

"Yeah, him. I know it's supposed to be elementally feminine to grow a person, right? But it really makes me feel more like a man than I ever did, and that doesn't even make sense."

Phil didn't say anything for a long moment, and Clint tried to keep his heart rate down to an acceptable level. Junior decided it was a great moment to practice her soccer skills and kicked Clint in the side, and he used the side of a hand to shove her foot or butt or whatever it was back towards the middle.

"You know what," Phil said, when he finally started speaking, "I love you. And if you say being pregnant makes you feel masculine, then I don't see any reason why it shouldn't."

"I love you too," Clint said, and scooted over as much as he could and buried his face in Phil's neck.

***

"Bozhe moi," Natasha said, when she returned from a full month undercover in Texas, of all places. Her hair was blonde and curly, and Clint wondered if she'd actually had to tease it out at any point. "You're ginormous."

"Fuck you too," Clint said, and punched her in the arm as he laughed. "I know, right? I look like I swallowed a basketball."

"Yeah," Natasha said. "That's pretty much it. How's it going?"

"My ankles look like grapefruits," he said, "and I can't sleep on my back without basically sitting straight up, but D-Day--or, well, C-Day, I guess--is February 8th, so I've got another three weeks."

"Did you pick a name yet?" she asked.

Clint shrugged. "I think we're going to call her Baby Girl Barton-Coulson," he said, and belatedly realized Natasha might not get the joke. "That's what they write on the hospital bands of babies when the parents haven't decided on the name," he said.

"Yes, I'm aware," she said, grinning. 

"What would you name a kid, if you were in charge of it?" he asked.

She paused for a few breaths, and then said, "If the kid was a boy, probably James," she said. "I had a mentor named James--well, Djems, same thing. He was--important."

Clint nodded. "It's a good name," he said. "It's also on the 'no' list, because that's Bucky Barnes's real name, but it's a good name."

"For a boy," she said. "I know. I'd probably name a girl Natasha. It's a great name."

"It is," Clint said, "and that's why I'm not gonna name my daughter after you. Think of the pressure to be as awesome as you are."

"Flatterer," Natasha said, but she grinned. "Did you get the baby room set up?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Painted it blue, because fuck the gender binary, and got a crib, plus a changing table. Phil set the whole thing up in one weekend. We've got a metric shitload of onesies and baby socks and a little winter baby sack thing--I don't know what the real name is. Melinda May threw a baby shower while you were gone."

"Wait, who?" she said. "Because it sounded like you said Melinda May."

"I did," he said. "I'm pretty sure she's the only person on the planet I'd trust to throw me a baby shower. Present company excepted, of course. It was basically an excuse to eat cake and give me presents, and the room was decorated in shades of purple and black. It looked more like I was turning forty than having a baby. It was great."

"Damn," she said. "I'm mad I missed that."

"There are pictures," Clint said. "I'll show you later. How was the mission?"

"Ugh, boring, but damn, I could live in Texas if it meant I got to eat the food all the time."

"Were you infiltrating cheerleaders, or are you just dressed like it?"

Natasha looked down at her T-shirt, advertising some high school athletic program, and punched Clint in the arm again. "No, ass."

"You love me."

"Yeah," she said. "I do. And I'm not going anywhere until Baby Girl makes her appearance."

"Good," Clint said, a rush of relief he hadn't expected rushing over him. "Good."

***

The morning of the C-section, Clint woke up with weird cramps in his back--cramps that felt familiar, even though he'd never been pregnant before. "Oh, no," he said, one hand on his midsection. "Oh, hell, no, Junior. You're not making an appearance the usual way. Hey, Phil, let's go early, okay?"

"Why?" Phil said, rolling out of bed.

"I think I'm in labor."

"Oh," he said. "Yeah, let's go."

"But we don't have a name," Clint said, as he pulled on the stretchy pants and massively oversized shirt that had basically become his uniform.

"It's okay," Phil said. "I found a random name generator on the internet. I can get it on my phone, and we can hit refresh until we find something good."

"Are you kidding me?" Clint said, and a fresh pang hit him in the back, so he stopped in the middle of sliding on his sweatshirt. "Oof. No more of that."

"Let's face it," Phil said, helping Clint zip up the hoodie and grabbing the overnight bag from where it sat by the door. "It wouldn't be the weirdest part of this whole situation."

"Yeah," Clint said, "that's true. Let's get going."

Phil had taken a fleet car home the previous evening, so they didn't have to worry about finding a cab; Clint just had to make it from the elevator to the car and then from the car to SHIELD, about a forty-minute drive on a bad morning, without giving birth.

He managed, but Phil's driving, which was normally rather controlled, didn't help. They arrived about twenty minutes later, and Clint's back had actually stopped hurting by then. Dr. Augello, who Phil had called on the way in although they were only about forty-five minutes early, pitched Clint into a stirrup table and checked his cervix. "Well, you're not in imminent danger of actually having the baby," she said. "You're about two centimeters dilated, so I don't think we need to do the emergency C instead of the scheduled one at ten. You going to be okay that long?"

"Probably."

"What name am I writing on the wristband?" Dr. Augello asked.

"I don't even know," Clint said. "Phil?"

"Eulalia? Karlee?"

"No, and no," Clint said.

"Are you looking through a list?" Dr. Augello asked.

"Random name generator," Phil said. "Dagny? Edwina?"

"No, and definitely not."

"Well, tell me when you have one," she said. "Clint, we need to move you into the surgical room. Do you want me to help you up?"

"No, Phil can," he said, pulling his heels out of the stirrups and holding a hand out.

Phil shoved his phone in his jeans pocket and made two more suggestions. "Nina? Pauletta?"

"No, no," Clint said, and let Phil maneuver him up to standing. He could walk on his own power, and did, over three or four rooms to a slightly more inviting version of the surgical room he'd been in a time or two.

"Tracy? Alvilda?"

"No, and that's a name?"

"Not very common in the US, I don't think. Monica? Eleanor?"

"No, and maybe. Hold on to that one, okay?"

"Well, my mother's middle name is Eleanor," Phil said, with a wince.

"Okay, then no," Clint said. "Ugh, heartburn and I can't eat anything. Do I have to lie down yet?"

"No," Dr. Augello said, "not for another half hour or so, but you can have an antacid. That's protocol anyway. We'd decided on the spinal block, right?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "IV coming soon?"

"And the catheter."

"Ugh," Clint said.

"Amaya? Linnea?"

"What was that last one again?" Clint said.

"Linnea? It's--" Phil tapped the screen of his phone a couple times. "It's a flower. It's a Swedish name."

"Well, you know what," Clint said, "I've never met anyone with that name. I've never heard of anyone with that name. It's pretty, and I like flowers as well as anything else. What do you think?"

"Uh," Phil said. "Sure."

"She can always change it later if she hates it, or if she turns out to be he," Clint said.

"Right," Phil said. "So, Linnea Barton-Coulson. I like it. Middle name?"

Clint smacked his forehead. "God, let's just give her Natasha as a middle name, okay?"

Phil snickered, and then started laughing outright as the nurse came in to start the IV. "I love you. It's perfect," he said.

"She's never going to stop gloating," Clint said.

"No, she isn't."

-the end-

**Author's Note:**

> As a disclaimer: Never have I ever been trans, male, or pregnant, so I had to do a lot of research. I don't claim that Clint's experience is representative of pregnant trans men, or trans men in general. I have tried to read first-hand accounts when I can, and I've used what personal resources I can (asking friends), but if I've made any glaring errors, I apologize.
> 
> In no particular order:  
> -I read parts of a study ([here's a gloss](http://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2014/11/07/362269036/transgender-men-who-become-pregnant-face-health-challenges)) that indicated that a significant number of trans men actually experience _less_ dysphoria while pregnant, and some report feeling like Clint did, extra masculine. Most of them hated not being read as male while pregnant, but Clint is, largely because he mostly stays within SHIELD where everyone knows he's a guy.  
>  -The 'brain functioning better on T' bit I read in the blog of a trans masculine nonbinary person.  
> -I don't actually know any trans people who changed their name and went from the feminine to masculine version of a name, so I gave Clint an entirely different deadname. 'Kimberly' was the 10th most popular girl's name in Iowa in 1973. *shrug*  
> -I got all of my information about pregnancy and the testosterone-related changes in a trans man's body from Google searches. I double-checked all of it across multiple websites.  
> -Last, but not least, the title is from "Isn't She Lovely" by Stevie Wonder, because I am a terrible sap of a human being.


End file.
